


my love, i know you've had it rough

by alismithpdf



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Christmas Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, but mostly love, except manon never got back together with charles bc i don't hate women, mentions of lucas' father so light angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:21:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21582166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alismithpdf/pseuds/alismithpdf
Summary: Lucas’ family is a patchwork thing, but, nonetheless, as Christmas creeps closer it’s enough to keep him warm
Relationships: Eliott Demaury/Lucas Lallemant
Comments: 10
Kudos: 63





	my love, i know you've had it rough

He gets a single message from his father in the run up to Christmas. 

_ Will be out of town until January. See Leo if you need anything or there’s an emergency.  _

Leo, his dad’s best friend who Lucas has not seen since he was fifteen, a few weeks before his father left for good. Leo, who Lucas doesn’t have any contact information for. Leo, who Lucas does not know where to find in the case of any emergency.

It’s a move so perfectly fitting his father that it almost makes him laugh. He reads the message from his notifications, and the date sits right above it. December 1st, welcoming in the season of giving and celebration and goodwill, and his father’s friendly reminder that Lucas, his only child, is an afterthought. He stares at it for a few more seconds before composing a response. 

_ great! I’ll send you a selfie of us on christmas day _

He waits 30 seconds for a response then locks his phone and throws it onto the coffee table. It lands close to where his feet are resting on the ledge and, by a miracle of gravity, doesn’t skid off the side. His first win of the day. Lisa, sitting next to him, glares at it then glances at him, her animosity only moderately toned down. 

“What’s wrong with you?” she asks, not quite forceful enough to be a demand but getting there. 

“My father.”

Her face relaxes at that, annoyed bewilderment melting to realisation, consideration. “Ohhh. Did he cut you off?”

“No.” although, judging by his track record it wouldn’t surprise Lucas in the slightest. “Not yet. He’s fucking off somewhere until next year and reminded me that should I ever need anything, I should talk to his friend.”

Lisa scoffs. “He’s an asshole. If I were you, I'd be glad not to need to come up with an excuse to avoid him on Christmas.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah. People get so cozy and familiar around this time of the year and it’s so bleh. Just because we’re related doesn’t mean I want to spend the last weeks of the year with them, you know? I’m capable of feeling bad about myself on my own, I don’t need their help.” 

He bites the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know. I didn’t get past the pissed at being blown off again phase.”

“You’re better off without him,” she says, offhand and looking at the TV, but sure and unthinkingly, like it’s a fact. Lucas is not nearly as confident as she is, but hearing someone else say it is - nice. Refreshing, even, after so many people have told him that familial bonds are above reproach, and should survive even the shittiest conditions. 

“Maybe you’re right,” he says even though he’s mostly sure Lisa is more focused on the awful Christmas movie than him and his bullshit. 

She shrugs, and they’re sitting so close together the movement drags his sleeve up his arm. “I know. Now, do you think it’ll end with a proposal or the wedding?”

A pretty blonde woman in expensive clothing is arguing with a man, strangely nondescript except for his very white teeth and distractingly muscled arms, who is grinning at her like he finds her anger amusing. “A pregnancy,” Lucas decides.

Lisa hums thoughtfully. “Bet on it?”

He considers the state of his bank account. “I can go as high as five euro.”

“Done.”

Because he is a genius and an expert film critic, Lucas is five euro richer by the time the credits roll and Mr and Mrs Christmas are excitedly expecting their first child, who will undoubtedly be named Ivy or Noelle or something more tragic in celebration of the wonderful time of the year in which they were conceived. He wastes an entire second feeling sorry for this fictional kid and their name, then his phone buzzes and Lisa gets up to where her laptop is hooked up to the TV to choose another bad movie, and the second passes. 

This time it's a message from his mum: a bible verse, a photo of a fantastically ugly large clock that reminds him of one they had at their old house, and an invitation to mass in a couple weeks, the timing of which is a little suspect. Maybe they coordinated so his father’s message could be balanced with his mother reaching out. It's possible, he knows they still talk occasionally, but the thought that his father might  _ know  _ he can still emotionally bruise Lucas with his disregard is rather distressing. 

Distressing, but something to dwell on later. For now he accepts the invitation and gets a heart emoji in response that makes his chest tighten for reasons he can't quite identify. Another thing to add to the ‘dwell on later’ list. Right now he would gladly abandon the entire world outside of his building, sans Eliott, and Yann, and maybe the old woman who owns his favourite bakery, for the chance to collapse entirely into the minutes before his father texted when his ribs weren’t twisting and he wasn’t compelled to acknowledge the complicated, corroded ties that bound his family to one another. 

Lisa elbows him. “You’re thinking too loudly, it’s killing the mood. Was that your dad again?”

Lucas rubs the spot on his ribs she hit. Lisa’s expression of care is rather… sharp, but, as he has learned, it is care, and is founded with good intentions. He just wishes her joints were less reminiscent of desk corners. “My mum.”

She purses her lips, sends his phone a complicated look he can’t read. “Mika has some Doritos, go grab them.”

“... Why?”

“Because they’re good and you need the distraction, obviously. I’ll replace them later,” she adds, waving her hand like she’s brushing the issue away. And, well, he is kind of hungry, and all movies are better with junk food, so he struggles out of his slump on the couch to snatch them and Lisa, generously, lets him grab the first handful, cheese flavouring bright red on his fingertips and the palm of his hand. It actually works, is the thing, the combination of nutrition-less food and inane, cheerful dialogue clears his head and the snarl of thoughts that were growing, snipping them back until he forgets. 

It feels like hours later when Mika crashes their movie party, wandering out of his room dressed to brave the chill outside and eyeing them curiously. Lucas honestly didn’t realise he was home; it’s unusual that he would be here and completely silent for the hours he and Lisa have sat sinking into the couch cushions. 

One look at the movie, where a group of children are singing in the middle of a hardware store for reasons Lucas can’t explain despite having watched every second that preceded it, and Mika shakes his head resolutely. 

“Lisa, it’s way too early to be watching this shit. Come out with me to the market! Embrace the magic of the festive spirit and mulled wine.”

"I’m already embracing magic: the magic in these movies is stronger than anything Harry Potter ever did."

"It's not stronger than seasonal depression."

Lisa scowls at him. "It's stronger than your complaining." 

“I won’t be complaining if you join me. Come on, set a good example for the impressionable youths under our care,” he says, sending a pointed look towards Lucas. 

“No one should be under my care.”

“I agree. If you come I’ll buy you one of those hats.”

Lisa expression twists into one of consideration that is very inconvenienced by either changing her mind in the first place, or having witnesses there while she does so. Mika nods his head slowly, repeatedly, like he’s encouraging her, and she groans loudly, eyes looking heavensward. She throws a cushion at Mika, glares at Lucas like he had anything at all to do with it, and disappears into her room. 

Mika hugs the cushion to his chest. “That went well.”

Lucas is less convinced and can feel himself squinting, but lets it go. “What hat?”

That makes Mika let out a sharp bark of laughter. “You’ll see. Also, if Manon comes by, make sure you let her in, even if your boytoy is here.” Lucas frowns, opens his mouth. “I know, I know, not your boytoy, but that wasn’t the important part. Be nice to her.”

Lucas is always, usually, nice to Manon, which Mika  _ knows,  _ so there’s no real use in pointing it out. In any case, he doesn’t have the chance as Lisa stomps out of her room a moment later, bundled up in a dark green coat and grey beanie tugged low on her head, and heads to the door. Mika jumps up after her, sliding on his coat and wrapping a red plaid scarf that is actually Lucas’ around his neck. “Be good, kitten!” he shouts just as they’re leaving, the words punctuated by the door closing.

* * *

A few days later he is forcibly reminded of the holiday again when he stumbles on Lisa and Mika discussing travel plans and exactly how many people they have to buy gifts for and the optimum time to start drinking so they can be drunk most of the day but won’t overly offend people. He, truly, just wants to make some pasta so he can finish watching a documentary without being distracted by hunger, and fucks around on his phone while waiting for the water to boil in the hopes he won’t be dragged into the discussion. Then Mika asks him, with a cheerfulness that seems forced, what his plans are.

“Probably go to Yann’s place again.” That’s where he went last year, first Christmas not living with his parents and he didn’t know how to fuck to exist in a room with them, either seperately or together, so he boycotted the potential disaster all together. The Cazas’ were happy to have him, and didn’t ask any questions that would make him feel weird. Even Yann’s little sister didn’t say anything accidentally-insulting or purposefully-nosey, which was a little bizarre and the only sign he needed that Yann had prepped them all beforehand about Not Bringing Up His Family Situation and had bribed his sister with something to ensure she’d play along. 

He should probably let Yann know he doesn’t need to bribe anyone this year, and can devote the money to other causes instead, like pizza or weed or replacing the wheels on his skateboard because they’ve been fucked ever since the Halloween Incident. 

“Good! But, ah, if something falls through, Lisa and I can be your last resort, my aunt’s house is a home to all abandoned youths and post-youths. She had to expand the definition when I started paying bills.”

Lucas pauses in adding the pasta to quirk an eyebrow. “Your aunt would be okay with your teenaged housemate spending Christmas with her?”

“Of course you’d be welcome, kitten. You’re our distant cousin, aren't you?” Lucas shoots him a look to communicate exactly how funny that joke is, which is about as funny as the first time he heard it. “She and her wife have a thing about collecting wayward misfit toys, you wouldn’t be the only one there. Manon came one year," he adds, nodding towards Manon who nods when Lucas looks at her, a micro domino effect of head movements. 

"Before I met Emma," she confirms. "Emily is very laid back, Lucas. The worst she'd do is force feed you too much pie.”

“There’s no such thing as too much pie. And if you keep speaking blasphemy I won’t bring you back any.”

Manon smiles at him, artificial and beatific, like she’s being photographed for a magazine spread on the benefits of acai berries and low stress lifestyles, and he sighs dramatically, acquiesce. “You know I can’t resist your charm, Manon. Fine, but no more than three slices. You’re not the only one using me as a pie supply line.”

“Do you think she’ll make sour cherry or should I request it?” Lisa asks in the tone of someone posing a great philosophical question. That, and the thoughtful silence that follows, he takes as a sign to get his food made as quickly as possible and get out. He really does not have the patience or energy for extended conversations about pie today.

“Did she make one last year?”

“She replaced it with fucking pineapple, remember?”

“That - can’t be true,” Manon says, her voice choked up. 

“It was terrible.”

“It was  _ amazing _ .” He strains the water and stirs in sauce. The quantity he has could probably feed at least four, but he spoons almost half of it into a large bowl regardless.

“I think I should ask. I can’t tell her  _ not  _ to make something, but I  _ can  _ ask that she make a specific pie that lots of other people also want.” He purses his lips at the amount of cheese, already melting onto the red sauce, then adds some more.

“It can’t hurt to ask. But, if there is pineapple this year please don’t bring me back a slice.”

On that note he maneuvers around them and slides back into his room, hands hot from the bowl and silently agreeing with Manon.

* * *

As if in blessing from the universe, the cold downgrades from monstrous to mostly tolerable on the day his plans with the boys have them venturing outside. The cold stained air makes his cheeks red and feet grumble because his shoes aren't particularly insulated, but it’s a vast improvement over the way his body rebelled when he had to get groceries yesterday, so he counts it as a win.

Climate Change: 1; Slowing Climate Change: all the others numbers. 

He spots Yann standing under depressing, skeletal trees, the empty branches looming high and dark above them, talking to a couple, all of their necks bent towards a phone screen, tapping and swiping occasionally. The couple, one of whom inexplicably holding an iced drink, walk off with a heartfelt thanks just as Lucas arrives in ear shot, and when Yann greets him he’s still wearing that satisfied smile that means he just helped someone. They go in for their handshake, and when Lucas gets his hand back there’s patches of multicoloured glitter, pink and gold and green shining dully under the overcast sky. He gives it, and Yann, a betrayed look. Yann, to his credit, looks slightly regretful but he doesn’t attempt to hide the amusement that sits in the corner of his mouth. 

“Bro,” Lucas says in his most wounded voice, He almost places a hand on his heart for dramatic effect, but muscle memory would make it his glitter hand, and he’s wearing his favourite hoodie, and the emotional and material damage such a move would cause isn’t worth the small augmentation of his performance. Unfortunately. Now that he knows what he’s looking for, he can see glitter in Yann’s scarf, and dusting his shoes, and a little on his neck right above the chain of his silver necklace. 

Yann notices him noticing and nods. “Yeah. If I’m fucked, you’re fucked. Be glad you’re an only child.”

“What was she making?”

“Some clay monster for her friend, dad made me help.”

“Monster?”

Yann moves his entire upper body side to side in indecisiveness, weighing up arguments for both sides. “It might have meant to be a giraffe but it looked like something that should’ve been made at Halloween. I honestly don’t know what she was going for."

Lucas doesn’t know enough about the minds of thirteen year old girls to make a guess at which is most likely: innocuous animal or Cthulhu horror. He remembers Emma and Sara discussing with great seriousness what honestly sounded like a cult when they were that age, but neither he nor Yann got any real details about it, just off hand comments and overheard out of context snippets of conversation. It was, very much, a boys not allowed situation. 

Yann, with the air of a man who has been through battle, looks mournfully down at his scarf. It’s Lucas’ favourite scarf, one he’s borrowed countless times, and under the almost white sky the damage seems almost minor, but as soon as the sun or artificial lights stream down the shiny specks of colour will shine in all their glory. “It’ll never be the same again.”

“Hey,” he pats Yann’s shoulder with his non glitter hand and hopes he didn’t just up his glitter levels. “If there’s anyone who can pull off a glittery scarf, it’s you,” he offers earnestly, and Yann nods gratefully. 

“Thanks man.” He cranes his neck upward, looking at the sky for something, and when he meets Lucas’ eyes again his have life once more; depression stage over, acceptance stage commence. “We should go before they order without us.”

They turn and start walking, shoulders close together and bumping every so often on the crowded sidewalk. Everyone bundled up against the cold makes it feel more crowded than it should be, an anonymous sea of black and grey with only rare spots of colour, mostly from kids. Like the ones walking towards them, their parents decked out in practical dark clothing but one of the kids wearing a coat that makes them look like a lion, tan with a hood cluttered with a fur mane along with eyes and what Lucas’ thinks is teeth, and the other kid entirely in lurid pink and green so they just look like a whole ass watermelon. It’s not a look Lucas could pull off, but he appreciates it. The best part of December are all the festive lights that go up, but the day needs some colour too.

“Do you think there’s enough glitter to infect the boys?”

Yann nods confidently, rolls his shoulders. “There’s always enough glitter. It doesn’t obey our laws of physics.” 

He’s right, and by the time they’re all stuffed into a booth they all have matching hands like they’re all part of an incognito secret crafts society. Wave your glittery hand at the door and be ushered into a world of unlimited craft supplies with which to change the course of history. 

“Crafting skills are the basis for a lot of the basic necessities of society, so I doubt you’re very far off,” Arthur says when Lucas brings it up. “Just not in the way you wanted.”

“I wanted espionage,” Lucas agrees.

“There’s still time for that. Be the change you want to see in the world, Lucas, help usher in the revolution with glitter and handmade jewelry.”

“Secret messages in the jewelry,” Yann suggests. 

“Secret messages in where the glitter is,” Basile adds.

Lucas rolls his eyes. “I hope there’s more to the revolution than secret messages.”

“When the time is right, we bring in the very loud messages.”

“Brutally loud, even.”

“I would go so far as to say excruciatingly loud, to the point of being literally unendurable.”

“Speaking of, anyone wanna play pinball?” Basile asks, throwing his chin towards where the game sits unused across the room. 

Arthur glances between Lucas and Yann with sharp eyes, lingering on the latter, then flicks Basile’s shoulder. “Yeah, I could use the laugh.”

They slide out of the booth with only mild complaining from Basile, and when the game starts up Yann leans close. "You still coming to mine for Christmas?" 

"Yeah. That okay?" 

"Of course. Just thought you might be with Eliott instead."

Lucas shakes his head. "We might meet up, but his parents already don't have a great impression of me, and I'd rather not deal with all the questions and shit." 

"Why don't they like you? Did you smash their favourite vase?" 

If only. "The whole boat thing."

Yann’s whole face frowns, confused. "That wasn't your fault."

"I think it's more the fact that their beloved son broke into a boat specifically so we could drink champagne and fuck. It's not the best first impression." Their eyes had been so  _ knowing  _ when Lucas first met them, and noticeably guarded, and maybe he was just being paranoid, like Eliott said, but if he was in their position it's unlikely he'd be very warm either. 

Yann actually winces. "Right."

"Yeah." 

As if in compensation he drapes an arm around Lucas' shoulder, both the weight and the faint sandalwood scent it brings is comforting in its familiarity. "If they still hate you when the wedding comes around, I promise to do my best man duties and create an impenetrable buffer so you don't have to deal with them."

"If they want to talk shit to my face, they'll have to wait in line behind my father anyway."

Yann chuckles, the vibrations travelling straight into Lucas shoulders until he laughs briefly as well, part solidarity, part sheer ridiculousness of the situation. The combined sound attracts the attention of Arthur and Basile, who deign it important enough to split their attention from the pinball machine.

"Boys! Share with the class," Arthur yells back to them, only loud enough to reach but gifting him with an irritated glare from a harassed looking man regardless. Honestly, if you’re in the same room as a pinball machine, or any arcade game machines, you should be prepared for some raised voices. That’s just how people work, you would be a fool to expect anything else.

“Just remembering when that kid convinced Basile that a bug repellent candle was solid cologne and he used it to try and pull,” Lucas says and watches with glee as Arthur cackles and Basile’s expression crumples as he abandons the game to glare at him. 

“You said you’d never bring that up again!”

“I don’t remember making that promise. Do you, Lucas?”

“Absolutely not. You were clearly hallucinating, Bas, probably a side effect of all the chemicals in that candle.”

* * *

It's mid afternoon but already getting dark outside, shadows stretching then flattening to nothing and the sky fading to dark grey. It throws weak light onto his bed through the windows, and he soon has to stretch to turn on his lamp to supplement the light so he isn’t sitting in the absolute dark staring at his computer screen like a hacker in a boring 90s movie. 

A knock sounds through his door, two sharp taps that either mean it’s Lisa or Manon, who share odd similarities with one another, either because of the cousin thing or the living in proximity thing. If it’s the latter, Lucas wonders how long it took for the mirroring to begin. Already he’s picked up random things from Mika, innocuous behavioural tics, something he didn’t realise even happened until Basile was being a dick and pointed out the similarities, laughing. Until Yann asked  _ why  _ he was laughing, because there’s nothing particularly humourous about being influenced by other men, and if the joke is that by acting more like Mika Lucas is acting more  _ gay _ then that’s a pretty fucked up joke and is more indicative of his internal biases than anything else, and that it’s literally no different than anyone else just learning how to act like a person from their families, somehow without making it sound as though Lucas was a pathetic orphan.

Lucas loves Yann.

“Yeah?” he asks, voice pitched louder to reach beyond the door. 

“It’s me.”

“Come in,” he says and half a second later Manon’s head pops through the door, followed by the rest of her. She looks cozy, wearing a massive mustard sweater and matching socks, and her eyes have that very specific brightness that means she’s been baking and sampled the frosting as she went. 

“Are you busy?”

He shakes his head and shuffles over to make room for her. She settles down, bringing with her the distinct scent of lime, and leans in close, their shoulders slouched together and shins almost touching. He moves his laptop so it sits over both their legs and doesn’t object when she bats his hand out of the way to scroll through his TV library herself. The last time he saw her with a lime it was while making miniature tarts piled with whipped cream. He had to scrape it off to make it edible, the sweetness way too much for him and inferior to the sour lime and something (fruit, perhaps, or a spice; he didn't recognise it either way) mixture underneath.

“Tarts?” 

“And some scones. I left some in the kitchen for you all.”

That’s his dinner sorted, then. “Are you sleeping over tonight?” 

“I don’t think so. Are you  _ sleeping  _ tonight?” she asks, and the genuine concern for his well being moves him, makes him appreciative and startled, even though he should be acclimatised to it by now. 

“I’m sleeping fine,” he answers truthfully.

“Good.”

“Yeah.” 

It doesn’t take long for her to lose patience with choosing something and opens up YouTube, clicking around until they’re watching an anonymous man patiently and systematically make a knife out of seaweed. It’s...baffling, and hypnotic, and more interesting than half of the things on his harddrive. Manon, too, seems invested in it, her eyes not wavering from the stirring and drying and carving and sharpening, so he waits until it’s over to continue their conversation. 

“What about you?”

“I’m… sleeping some. I don’t know, December is weird, and I’m trying not to be alone too much. Best to be busy, you know?"

He remembers, suddenly, that last year she would've been with Charles in London, wrapped up in each other in a cozy apartment with a tiny Christmas tree and snow covering the world outside. That's how he'd like to picture it; hopefully it somewhat resembles the truth. He could ask for details, but he doesn't like to mention Charles unless he has literally no other choice, and he doubts the answer, the reminiscing it would require, would bring anyone much good. 

There's something to be said for catharsis, though, and for having the choice.

"Do you want to talk about it?" 

Her mouth twists sardonically. "Which 'it'?" 

"Any. Or none. Either way."

Manon sinks deeper into his side, slumped enough that he can rest his head on hers, both of them staring at his laptop screen suggesting more videos for them to watch. "Not right now. Do you?" 

Does he want to talk about it? If there was anyone he’s absolutely certain wouldn’t judge him, or begrudge his complicated and sometimes unkind feelings about this holiday and the people he’s supposed to spend it with, it would be her. It creates a certain solace, to have the option there, to have a bridge so that neither of them need retreat to isolation on certain topics. "I’m going to mass with my mum this week. She’s doing better, said her new therapist is a lot more useful than the last one.”

"I’m glad, Lucas,” she says, and he knows she's sincere. “You're not spending the day with her?" 

"No. It's - too much pressure." 

Right now they do much better in small increments of time: a meal, an afternoon, a trip to the cinema as they both try to navigate what their relationship has become, what it could grow to be. They haven’t yet built up to whole days; Lucas hesitant and nervous of all the ways that growth could invert to harm, and his mother… he doesn’t know. Guilt, he occasionally thinks, or anxiety, or the same uncertainty he feels. Love manifests in confusing ways, sometimes. It’s the one thing he doesn’t doubt. "Next year, maybe. Things are delicate, it's better not to push it." Manon, thankfully, knowingly, doesn’t inquire further. 

"Family is so…" she trails off and Lucas can imagine her scouring the French language for a word that will fit, "annoying," she says, then tries again, " _ disconcerting _ ." It is, perhaps, inadequate but he knows what she means, that uncomfortable, complicated, contradictory tangle of emotions and thoughts and obligations that come with being related to people. 

“Disconcerting,” he agrees, and they stay like that, leaning against one another watching an array of low stakes media, warm and comfortable as the world darkens outside, until Mika comes home with bags of Thai food for everyone. He and Manon unbury themselves from the blanket nest they’d gradually formed to meet him, and Mika looks completely unsurprised to see Manon there, to see them coming out of his room together. Rather, with a flourish he hands Manon a bag of her favourites he got specifically for her, while he, Lucas and Lisa pick from the rest of the offerings, and they all herd into the living room, vine compilations playing on the TV and stray bits of sticky rice buried between couch cushions and piles of plastic containers gradually collecting on the coffee table along with napkins and abandoned chopsticks and mugs of various warm beverages. 

"Lucas, catch!" 

He snaps his head in Mika's direction, quickly calculates the trajectory and leans forward, neck tilted back. It lands directly into his mouth, small but crispy and hot and tasting of pork, and he grins triumphantly as Manon applauds and Mika rolls his eyes and Lisa, surprisingly, snatches one to try it herself. 

She, too, grins triumphantly. 

* * *

**Eliott ❤️**

_ are you still coming over today? _

_ yeah of course  _ **❤️  
** _... unless you’re cancelling _

_ definitely not cancelling!  
_ _ just making sure  
_ _ don’t eat lunch _

_ :( it’s too cold to go out  _

_ good thing we’re not going out   
_ _ just trust me and don’t eat  
_ _ see you soon  _ **❤️**

**❤️**

* * *

Eliott’s building has the same cold, artificial smell it always has, but stronger, like it just got a fresh coating. Bafflingly, he didn’t notice it the first time he was here, but perhaps that was partially because he was slightly dumbstruck about being there at all, half sure the universe would intervene because clearly he had, somehow, hacked his way into this position and the universe would quickly right the wrong that had occurred. But that didn’t happen, and now it’s as familiar to him as his own apartment building, and it took no time at all for him to relax enough to be hit with genetically modified frozen spearmint, a scent that should only be encountered in a dentist's office, every time he comes over.

It is, as always, a relief to walk into Eliott's apartment. There’s music playing, soft enough that he can only hear the bass and not any of the components around it, and a kettle gurgling, and no overhead lights turned on, only a lamp with an elaborately patterned shade that makes the room feel cozy and welcoming. 

In his bag are some things he'll need if he stays over tonight, or a few nights, and it's noticeably fewer items than he needed to lug over even mere months ago. Somewhat accidentally, somewhat purposefully, a toothbrush and clothes and his preferred brand of cereal and an extra phone charger have been left behind and given a new place. It's the same situation in his apartment too, Eliott's jar of hair cream stacked next to the extra soap, a book Lucas would never read on his desk, a set of metal straws that appeared in the cutlery draw during summer. 

He puts the bag down near the door, slides off his shoes, and while waiting for Eliott to emerge, glances around at the few family photos that are hung up on the wall. The Demaurys photograph well, looking charmed and happy out at him from the frames, a family holiday they’d taken a couple years ago, him and his sister as kids covered in sand, the four of them standing formally at a wedding with the bride and groom. He likes the photos, especially the one of Eliott as a kid with long tangled hair and a missing tooth, but it is rather odd that they’re printed and framed and displayed; Lucas has never printed a photo in his life, and the only people he knows who have are parents and particularly proud relatives. He doesn’t know if the photos were chosen by Eliott, or were a gift from his parents when Eliott moved out, but instinct leans him towards the latter.

He had about three months before asking about what the fuck was going on with Eliott's living situation, if it was a Manon situation or something more like his, but the answer was mundane, which Lucas appreciated. That his parents had to move to another city for ambiguous work reasons but wanted him to finish school in Paris so he moved in with his sister, then a few months before they met his sister moved to Lyon and he was free to blast his terrible dubstep Queen remixes as loud as he pleased. Except now she was coming back for a short holiday, taking back her space in the apartment, and while Lucas knows Eliott will be compelled to spend some time with her, he's determined to avoid the apartment as much as possible while she would be living there.

He stays looking at the photos for as long as he can stand it, roughly 30 more seconds, then follows the sound of the kettle. Such a decision leads him to stumble into a small cardboard box, kitchen counters cluttered with bags and tupperware containers and baking equipment, and his boyfriend in knitted forest green jumper that Lucas immediately wants to cuddle up to then steal. 

Eliott brightens when he catches sight of Lucas, transferring his mug to one hand to usher him closer. Lucas glances significantly at the counters but Eliott, after giving it an acknowledging glance, just smiles, gestures again for Lucas to come closer, and says, “I had a craving.”

He takes the invitation and, quite unconsciously, reaches for Eliott’s hand, clasping their fingers together, soft and dry. “A craving?” He spots a box of cocoa powder and a large bag of flour. 

“How do you feel about cupcakes?”

“Positively.”

“Good. I don't normally bake things, but it shouldn't be that hard, right? Just science and colour."

"Science is notoriously easy," Lucas agrees with a mostly straight face. 

"Well, we're experts in colour if nothing else," he returns with a look that makes Lucas feel warm and a little triumphant. He squeezes his hand. 

"I don't think the same strategy will work here."

“But I think the same enthusiasm will. See?” He pulls out his phone and shows Lucas a photo of cupcakes that have been beautifully decorated with icing to make, of course, woodland animals. He then swipes over to more cupcakes, these ones Christmas themed using a blinding amount of red and green. Eliott clicks away after that photo, but Lucas  _ knows  _ there are a lot more saved. 

“You know how to do that?”

Eliott shoots him a look that is all faux offence. “I’m an  _ artist _ , Lucas. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Oh so fucking Monet was an expert cake designer as well?” Lucas flicks an eyebrow up but Eliott doesn’t answer, just takes a determined sip from his mug. “You can’t use that excuse for everything.”

He scoffs. “Of course I can. Did you just compare me to Monet?” he adds, looking way way too pleased. 

“Shut up.”

“No, no, no, I was starting to think my important contributions to art history would be ignored, but, finally, some acknowledgement. And does that make you my muse?”

“You are the worst person I’ve ever met,” Lucas says, and in that moment he means every word.

“Nah, I am the Great Artist Of Your Life, and you, by your own confession, are the Great Inspiration that Fuels My -”

Lucas has to kiss him to shut him up, his hands buried in Eliott’s hair and chests pressed against one another. They’re smiling too much for it to last long, and it dissolves into them pressing their smiles together, but Eliott’s smile is one of his favourite things in the world. So it’s an okay deal, all things considered.

When they pull apart, Eliott is actually blushing, a little, the tops of his cheeks light pink. It’s fascinating, and delightful, and feels somewhat like a miracle, even now, that Lucas might be responsible for it. He moves to curl his palm around Eliott’s cheek, trace the pink with his fingers, but Eliott, determined and with a vision he intents to fulfil, kills Lucas’ plan by stepping back a couple paces and gesturing to the line up of about six small bottles on the counter. "Pick one."

Lucas mourns the lost opportunity for a moment before forcing himself to snap back into focus. Eliott wants to bake cupcakes, so they’re damn well going to bake cupcakes. There’s time enough for other things later. 

On closer inspection, the bottles prove to be various kinds of flavour essences. "Only one?" A single flavour in anything Eliott has a hand in making in rather uncharacteristic. 

"I'm choosing the other one."

"Ahhh. Collaborative flavouring."

"Community sourced cupcakes." 

Community sourced. A community of only them is a rather wonderful thought and he grins at the bottles. Eliott sidles closer, pressed up against his side, and presses a kiss to his temple, possibly because he can sense Lucas' thoughts, possibly because he adores the romance of baking together, possibly because he's cold and wants to steal some of Lucas' body heat, possible because of something Lucas cannot predict nor imagine. 

Lined up are peppermint, orange blossom, pineapple, lavender, coffee, and raspberry. He chooses peppermint, in the name of festivity and the superiority of peppermint and chocolate as a flavour combination. Eliott, eyeing both him and the other bottles critically, decides on lavender. Seeing it, Lucas decides to squint at Eliott, turning to face him directly so the effect isn't diminished. Eliott, his eyes more blue than grey this close up, grins at him. The combination is predictably and irritatingly devastating and Lucas can  _ feel  _ his squint melt away, replaced with something soft and and happy and incredibly revealing. But he’s okay with being revealing, here, in this warm, safe kitchen with someone who so eagerly and earnestly wants to shower love in the world, who is so obviously comforted with knowledge that his love is a cherished and worthy gift. 

"Does lavender even taste good?" He asks, his voice, perhaps, a little soft.

"Probably." Eliott widens his eyes like he's about to impart some extreme wisdom on the world. "Be brave, Lucas."

Be brave. Be brave in the face of voluntarily making food that will inevitably taste like soap. He nods determinedly and promises, "Pas peur.”

Eliott brushes their noses together then unceremoniously pushes him back a few steps. “Let’s begin.”

* * *

They do begin, lining up and measuring out ingredients, getting flour all over the phone as they both check and recheck quantities and steps, and Eliott telling him about the blackhole of cake decorating videos he got sucked into that gave him the idea, which leads them to interlude number one.

* * *

“My YouTube recommendations will never be the same.”

“Maybe you could fix it by watching the exact opposite and the algorithm will even it out?”

“The fuck is the exact opposite of cupcake decorating?”

“I don't know... cars getting run over by other, bigger cars? An axe fight?"

“Xbox verses flame thrower.” 

“Yeah, shit like that.”

“... Now I want to check if that last one exists.”

“... Where's your laptop?”

“In my room. Can you grab my hoodie as well?”

* * *

The batter doesn’t taste entirely awful, just odd, the lavender adding a flowery taste he isn’t familiar with in food, and he’s still half sure that they’ll only be tasty if drowned in icing, provided it isn’t horribly sweet. Nonetheless, it gets spooned into paper cups and placed into the oven without incident and without alterations. He puts a timer for 20 minutes on his phone and they migrate into the living room, to the couch, Lucas’ leg automatically overlapping Eliott’s as soon as they sit down. 

* * *

“You don’t seriously believe that, right?”

“I don’t need to believe it, there’s actual evidence.”

“Blurry photos are not evidence!”

“Ah, they  _ absolutely  _ are, and it’s not just photos. Tons of people have reported seeing a super tall, hairy creature with eyes that glowed and that howled.”

“People lie, or they’re drunk, or high -”

“- Or you just want to stay blind to the truth, or the possibility of truth. Choose to  _ believe.” _

“You sound just like Idriss. I’ll choose to believe when we have a coherent narrative or I meet him myself.”

“You must not believe in aliens either.”

“Aliens are not the same thing!”

* * *

The cupcakes are dark from the chocolate, so it’s hard to tell, but Lucas feels mostly confident that they aren’t overcooked. A few of them look a multiple shades darker than the others, potentially charred, but he doubts it’ll affect the flavour too much. And Eliott’s taste buds do not bow to consistency or logic, so he’d probably enjoy the charred ones, improbable man that he is. 

They have to wait for them to cool, and made the icing in the meantime, mixing together butter and icing sugar and milk and vanilla until it comes together, dense and delicious. Then Lucas collects a stack of bowls and spoons from the cupboards and drying rack, and Eliott uncovers a handful of food colouring bottles, piping bags, and a bunch of differently shaped tips to go with the bags, scattering them across the counter. The icing gets approximately evenly divided between the bowls, and coloured with liberal use of the food dye until they have about eight bowls of icing, a bouquet of dirty spoons, and smears of multicoloured icing all along the bench, and floor, and skin.

He’s heard from Daphné that bright orange is a difficult colour to pull off, but he thinks he manages it just fine.

* * *

“It’s an experiment about the ideal conditions for creation and whatever. You have to meet with them a few times first, and go to a lecture or something, but then it’s fully paid for, the flight to the island, accommodation, food and everything. He did an exhibition a few years ago and his work is amazing, really experimental. I bet you’d learn so much from him there.”

“Oh my god, you’re going to join a cult. You’re going to join a cult and I’m going to get dragged into it with you.”

“Come on, it’s not a  _ cult _ , it’s a retreat, no one is getting indoctrinated.”

“Yann is going to kill you for getting me into this.”

“I’m not  _ forcing  _ you into anything. If you don’t want to join a cult, then don’t.”

“So you agree it’s a cult.”

“If you’ll agree I’m not making you follow me there.”

“I’m supposed to let you go there alone and get your organs harvested or killed in ritual sacrifice or  _ both _ ? I have to go with you to try and get you out.”

“What makes you think you’ll be immune to their brainwashing?”

“ _ I _ am a servant of logic and rationality and the scientific method, I think I’ll be able to resist.”

“If you talk like that there you’ll definitely be killed first.”

“Which means Yann will definitely kill you before they even get the chance.”

* * *

They watch the video about piping techniques twice. The woman suggests testing them out on baking paper before moving onto the actual food, but they forego that advice and split their cupcake bounty up equally for decoration. He picks up the piping bag gingerly, holding it a few different ways before finding a position that feels most stable, and squeezes a blob of icing in the middle of the cupcake. It leaves a spiky brown circle that is as close to hedgehog spikes as one is likely to get. They work together silently like that, each working on their stack of desserts, a candle burning close by that smells of lemongrass, and the playlist Lucas gave him on vinyl for his birthday playing in the background.

When he places the last set of spikes, and dots out the facial features using a toothpick, and looks at the finished product he feels, stupidly, proud of himself for a moment. It's surprisingly satisfying, the process of tangible creation, even if the creation is an animal cupcake that will be consumed in roughly 45 seconds. He takes a photo and sends it to Manon, who will appreciate it, and the boys, who will either want one or, in Basile’s case, attempt to give him shit about it, until Lucas will point out that his scorn is a very thin veil over jealousy that no one, especially Eliott, will bake food for him, and Arthur will agree with him, and the group chat will be bombarded with a string of evocative emojis from Basile about the betrayal. Consistency is such a sweet sound. He’s already smirking as he sends it and none of it has come to pass yet.

He looks over to Eliott, who has already finished one with a raccoon on top with very big eyes and a relatively small mask, and has moved on to a second one. Lucas can’t see what he’s doing, but it involves three different icing bags, and he’s biting his lip in concentration, the skin bleached white under his teeth. A part of Lucas wants to do  _ something  _ to rock his focus, maybe momentarily redirect it towards him, but the bigger part is curious about what he’s capable of painting with such a tiny surface and limited supplies, and the urge gets ignored. Instead, he grabs a cupcake, wipes off one of the many discarded spoons, and hews a slice off of the edge of it to try.

Eliott was overzealous in the quantity of lavender drops, but Lucas was overzealous in the amount of cocoa powder they added. Remarkably, the excess evens out into a flavour that is fudgy and herbal. On another day, faced with the unusual flavour, he’d make a big deal of it being inedible, but today he hews off another piece and tries again. 

It remains a surprising flavour, but he can adapt, he can learn to enjoy. 

* * *

When the last piping bag has been placed down and the bottle of sprinkles snaps closed, they arrange their bounty into what Eliott describes as a Christmas tree but what is honestly a triangle where the top corner is white with a gold star, and gaze at it appreciatively. There’s no real colour scheme or pattern behind the placements, sans the star, just an anarchic jumble of animals and flowers and snowmen and hearts and a single stormtrooper helmet with cracks running through it (“For Finn, Lucas, obviously.”), among other things, but it’s good, it looks good. There’s charm to be found in chaos. 

“They look better than the ones my dad makes,” Eliott declares, then smirks. “If I send him a photo he’ll beg for my help. All the aunts are coming over this year, he has to  _ impress _ .” He emphasises the word half mockingly and it makes Lucas smirk too, and bump their shoulders together. 

“Your dad makes cupcakes every Christmas?”

“Well, cookies, but same difference, same decorations and whatever.” He shrugs, then his expression changes a little, falls into something hesitant as he eyes Lucas. “You know, if you want to watch it unfold you can spend the day with us,” he offers, turning so they’re facing one another. It’s a kind offer, and almost a tempting one, but Lucas shakes his head.

“Maybe I could drop by, watch the carnage, but I want to hang out with Yann.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. They’re used to me, you know? And they know  _ why  _ I’m there instead of with my parents.”

“You think my family will interrogate you?”

“Well… won’t they?” Eliott shrugs, and Lucas resists the urge to roll his eyes. “It’s just easier this way." He pauses for a second in case Eliott has anything to say, but he doesn't, doesn't push the issue, doesn't try to maneuver Lucas out of his decision. Gratefulness trickles into his chest. "Come over that night, though? Or I’ll come to yours?”

At that, Eliott gets that very specific look in his eyes that means he’s planning something and is already excited by some aspect of it. Lucas would bet money he doesn’t have that the inside of Eliott’s head right now looks an awful lot like a storyboard full of possibilities and logistics and ideal camera angles. Another one of his dreams they'll be able to bring to life. Eliott nods, and curls a hand around Lucas’ shoulder to tug him closer. “The night is ours,” he agrees. 

“You know, it doesn’t have to be  _ epic,  _ it just needs to be us.”

“I know. Don’t worry, I’m not going to drag you to the opera. It’ll be super chill, very us,” Eliott assures him, and in the back of his head he can hear the faint sound of the boys cackling at such a statement, earnestly said. But just because their first few months were a bit turbulent, doesn’t mean the rest of the year has been; he and Eliott are very good at being lowkey, excellent at it, even. 

He wraps his arms around Eliott’s neck. “If you make me go to the opera I’ll leave you.”

Eliott nods, grins. “I know that, too. I’ll save it for the divorce.”

“Yeah?” Eliott nods again, eyes sparkling, happy. His heart hums. “Fair enough. Thank you for understanding.”

He kisses the end of Eliott’s nose, because it’s right there, and he can, and gets a kiss on the forehead for his effort. “Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> title from sia's 'sunshine' 
> 
> thanks for reading!
> 
> i'm on tumblr [ here ](https://without-tenderness.tumblr.com)


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